Don't get me wrong, I love to read a good book. When I was in high school, I actually went through a classical literature phase where I would read and read and read, but only books written by dead people. Kind of a morbid way to put it, but I couldn't think of another so STOP JUDGING ME. And I'll admit it, I actually do like a little Shakespeare and my buddy, Edgar. I would get excited to come to class and read Romeo and Juliet, and A Midsummer Night's Dream because the history and the way he could put his words together... it was astonishing. So I guess the truth is, I do like some poetry. For some reason though, I have it in my brain that poetry written by authors who are still alive... or even post-modern poetry, I ABSOLUTELY HATE IT. Like, why why why. It's pointless. What's even more pointless are haikus. We have to write them in my creative writing class and this is what I come up with:
The smell of autumn
Leaves crunching beneath my feet
Fall is here once again.
Leaves crunching beneath my feet
Fall is here once again.
To be completely honest with you, I wrote that poem on the train 10 minutes before class. And if you read that poem with your arm out, reaching towards the heavens, your eyes glancing across the horizon, and a tinge of suppressed happiness in your voice, you are the classic hippie poetry reader. I would stare at you in public, you weirdo. My poetry is complete trash. You know what modern poetry is like? It's like building old-fashioned cars, like cars from 1960's, in 2011. Why would you do that? It would have no value, the point of an old car is that it is OLD, it's vintage, it's worth something because of the year it was created. Other than that, I think poetry is just weird. I went to a poetry slam once with some friends and I can't remember a time where I've ever been so bored in my life. It's like a song that's been deprived of its beautiful melody. It's like a line from a play taken out of context.
I wasn't planning on being so mean today but I guess I'm in kind of a rant-y mood. I'm sorry if I've offended you by my anger towards poems. I'm sure that you write very beautiful poetry that someone else greatly appreciates. You don't need to be dead to write poetry. Now I feel bad for being so mean.
To write (right) my wrong, I'm going to leave you with a poem by my favorite favorite (DEAD) poet, Mr. Robert Frost. If you value poetry and you don't know who Robert Frost is, shame on you. Anyway. Good afternoon, friends. Talk to you soon.
"Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening"
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
